Matt Thompson
Fistfights are no less than rites of passage for many men. When asked whether they have ever been in a fight, some men are embarrassed to answer in the negative. Tales of tussles often highlight conversations between testosterone-filled males, and the details are usually blatantly exaggerated. My own physical altercation will not be one of these embellished stories; I will share each detail exactly as it happened, and even if the experience seems one-sided or biased, it is historically accurate.
I worked in the electronics department at Target for five years, and I encountered my share of shady characters over that time. Our store was a target (no pun intended) for theft, and we were often forced to deal with these miscreants in an unfavorable way. As a regular employee who was not authorized to confront physically any would-be thieves, my obligation was to restrain myself and contact our Assets Protection team whenever I spotted a potentially dangerous situation. However, in one particular circumstance, the need arose to act immediately and without concern for my personal safety.
Each evening at five o’clock, the closing team at Target has a meeting in which they go over the tasks and goals for the night shift. On this particular night, I was returning to my department from the evening huddle, weaving through the Kitchen, Health and Beauty, and Housewares departments on my way back to Electronics. I made a habit of cutting through Toys on my way to the rear of the store, since I typically covered that department as well as my own, and I liked to note the area’s condition and consider what work needed to be done during my shift. I had reached the last aisle of Toys when I heard a piercing shriek shatter the silence. “Somebody stop him, he’s got my purse!” My head swiveled toward the cry for assistance, and I turned around just in time to see a man sprint across my line of sight, a woman’s handbag within his clutches.
From where I was standing, I could see into the store’s central aisle and look in virtually any direction. I was concealed by the shelving in front of me, but I could lean out just far enough to observe what happened next while remaining hidden. The man had the option of running toward the fitting room in a corner toward the rear of the store or cutting to his right, toward the exits and directly into my path. He chose the latter option, and after about five seconds, he would be right on top of me.
I knew that, according to store safety regulations, I was not to involve myself physically in this situation in any way. I should have allowed the man to pass me and assumed that store security would deal with him at the front of the building. Many thoughts and ideas crossed my mind in those five seconds before he bore down upon me. I am still not sure why, but my brain eventually sent my body the following message: “YOU’RE A MAN! HIT HIM IN THE FACE!”
I summoned up every shred of courage I possessed, steeled myself, and when he reached my position, I stepped out from my hiding place and swung my fist at his nose as hard as I could. His head snapped back, he flipped into the air, and he landed on his back about five feet behind me. I quickly rushed to his side and noted his unconscious state and the unique manner in which his eyes had retreated upward into his skull, revealing solely their whitest portions. At that moment, I desired nothing more than to step on the prone figure of my conquered victim and bellow my dominance, but I realized that I was in a public place, so I contented myself with a grin.
The woman who had initially yelled for help soon came barreling around the corner, and she excitedly stammered her thanks, most relieved to get her purse back. Security arrived on the scene shortly, and I was simultaneously congratulated and warned never to do such a thing again. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, but I definitely had a story I would not soon forget.
